


Just the Two of Them

by Princess of Power (Pulpbomb)



Series: Just the Two of Them [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eventual Happy Ending, Gen, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Pining Greg, Post Reichenbach, Potential Romance, Sherstrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-16 06:04:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1334785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pulpbomb/pseuds/Princess%20of%20Power
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade is reminded how very little Sherlock thinks of him. But Lestrade, as Sherlock has often pointed out, is a fool.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Lestrade's POV for now. 
> 
> It popped into my head and I had to write it.
> 
> Not beta'd or britpicked. Therefore, all mistakes are mine. Find anything glaring, mention it in a comment. Please and thank you!

Lestrade was reeling. Sherlock and John were outside meeting the reporters and he was left upstairs with his heart breaking. How on earth did this happen?!

 

It all started so innocently. 

 

***

 

He'd been so happy when Sherlock walked out of the shadows and revealed himself to be, against all odds, still alive. Lestrade hugged the younger man before he could even think of potential repercussions. 

 

The weight that had been on his shoulders for over two years evaporated as he held Sherlock. He'd felt the other man tense before he seemed to relax into the embrace. Amazingly, he hadn't wasted away in the years he'd been gone. Sherlock somehow seemed more solid, more muscular than the rail-thin man Lestrade had buried. The DI had managed to pull himself together and release the younger man before the moment became too uncomfortable. They'd exchanged brief, meaningless words before the resurrected detective had sauntered off, confident that his relationship with the Yard had been restored.

 

Greg knew he'd done the right thing by not telling the other man just how devastating his death had been. How Lestrade had wept over his headstone countless nights, a cheap bottle of whiskey clutched in his grip, mourning the loss of a great man, a man he came to realize far too late that he loved with all his heart.

 

Instead, he'd said nothing. He'd kept his buried-but-not-gone feelings to himself. He played his usual role of world-weary Detective Inspector and paved the way at the Yard for Sherlock to resume his role as a consultant. Thank God, Moriarty had been proven a fraud and Sherlock's name had been cleared shortly after his 'death'.

 

When John had called to say Sherlock was having people over to 221B Baker Street as a sort of homecoming for the detective/mini-engagement party for the doctor and his new fiancée, Lestrade had agreed to go. Any chance to see Sherlock again, to remind himself he was alive and well and not rotting in the ground was a welcome one.

 

Thus Lestrade found himself greeting Molly and her Sherlock doppelgänger of a fiancé, making small talk with Mrs. Hudson and Mary. Lestrade was helping himself to some champagne when he heard Mary telling the story of how Sherlock had revealed his continued existence to John. He chuckled at the image of John tackling Sherlock in a fancy restaurant and then again when Mary mentioned the doctor scrabbling over a table to attack the consulting detective resulting in the three of them being tossed from two places in a row.

 

Mary is giggling, as she regales Molly and Mrs. Hudson on the sofa. "… And then, just when I think John is starting to come around, to maybe calm down enough to truly hear what Sherlock is trying in his infuriating way to say. The bloody man says something about John about missing 'the thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins, just the two of us against the rest of the world.' and John headbutted him in response! I swear I've never been kicked out of three different places in one night!" The ladies laugh, and Molly's fiancé, whatshisface, smiles awkwardly and Lestrade can't hear anything else over the sudden ringing in his ears.

 

_'Just the two of us against the rest of the world'_

 

Lestrade hears that phrase in Sherlock's inimitable baritone repeat over and over in his mind. 

 

_'Just the two of us against the rest of the world'_

 

He abandons his champagne flute and staggers over to an armchair and lets his body drop onto it. Sherlock's chair, _'of course, bloody typical Lestrade!'_. Even his subconscious is drawn to the sodding man. 

 

_'Just the two of us against the rest of the world'_

 

Lestrade shakes his head trying to rattle the voice from his head. Thankfully everyone is engrossed in Mary's story and no one has noticed the devastated man across the room. _'I guess there's your proof, Lestrade.'_ He thought bitterly. _'Sherlock never considered you anything more than "the rest of the world", a necessary evil to grant him access to cases.'_ He brought up his hands to massage his suddenly pounding head. 

 

_'Just the two of us against the rest of the world.'_

 

Sherlock's voice in his head seemed to resonate, banging around the inside his skull. "Shut up." Lestrade hissed.

 

Molly looked over at him from the sofa. "Greg? Are you alright? You look a bit pale."

 

The attention of the room shifts to him and he feels the need to get out of there immediately. "Ah no, seems I've a migraine coming on. I'm going to head back to my flat, have a bit of a lie down." Lestrade stands and goes to gather his coat.

 

The women all coo over him, wanting to help, and he grimaces, waving a dismissive hand. "I'll be alright. I get them every so often," he lies. "I'll see you all later. Congratulations again, Mary."

 

He bolts down the stairs and out the door. Once outside, the throng of reporters barely spare him a glance. John looks back over his shoulder at him but Lestrade just waves and walks away at a brisk pace, a single tear sliding down his cheek.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set during episodes 2 and 3 of season three...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited this chapter. Just cleaned it up a bit.

It seemed Lestrade's phone rang constantly. He was always thumbing the ignore button. John Watson kept calling him. If he had a case for the consulting detective and his loyal sidekick, he'd have been in contact with them already. 

 

Thankfully, the Yarders had been able to handle everything that had come across Lestrade's desk lately. It wasn't that he was ignoring Sherlock or his assistant/colleague/only friend in the whole sodding world, just that he was a busy man with an important job. He surreptitiously checked John's blog and saw that Sherlock managed to keep himself busy with private cases. 

 

The weeks blurred past. Lestrade buried himself in the work, did everything he could to avoid thinking of a certain curly-haired consulting detective.

 

The Yard continued to close cases and he continued to avoid 221B Baker Street.

 

The invitation to John Watson's wedding arrived and he tried to volunteer to work that weekend. Sadly, his bosses felt he'd been "working too hard lately" and were more than happy to give him the time off once Sally Donovan brought his potential plans to their attention. No good lousy turncoat employees having "his best interests at heart." He'd demote her if he could. 

 

He packed his bags and headed to Bristol to attend the ceremony and reception. Stag. He'd tried dating but his heart just wasn't into it and his job required so much of his attention. Plus every time he went out with someone, his imagination betrayed him by picturing Sherlock across the table. It wasn't fair to the people he dated, so he simply stopped trying.

 

The ceremony joining John and Mary had been lovely if boring although the reception had turned out to be quite lively. Leave it to Sherlock to uncover a murder plot in the middle of his best man speech. The detective had again shown that Lestrade barely registered on his radar, mocking him during his speech on at least two occasions. _'Geoff, indeed. Pompous git… Gorgeous, brilliant, pompous git.'_

 

After arresting the photographer, and turning him over to the local police force, Lestrade returned to the hall. He drank and managed not to cry when Sherlock performed a lovely piece he'd composed for the newlyweds. _'He'd never write a song for me. He doesn't even know my name. He doesn't want to know my name. The man doesn't care. Stop thinking about him, you sentimental idiot. Move on! Get over it!'_

 

Lestrade noticed Sherlock slipped out before the reception ended and barely managed to keep from following him. He wasn't Sherlock's loyal labrador retriever. He had some pride. And besides, as had been proven again and again, Sherlock preferred solitude when denied the company of his best friend. If he had ever wanted to spend time with Lestrade, he would have. _'Actions speak louder than words.'_ Greg got plastered at the open bar, hit unsuccessfully on two of the bridesmaids and retired alone to his hotel room. 

 

In his drunken, fitful dreams, he surreptitiously trailed after Sherlock when he ducked out of the reception and declared his love for the detective under the starry skies. Sherlock laughed and mocked him and Lestrade awoke with a pounding headache, an uncomfortably dry mouth and an all too familiar ache in his chest.

 

In the months that followed the wedding, Sherlock managed to get himself shot and nearly died for real. Lestrade tried to play off his concern for the detective when interacting with John at the hospital.

 

Sherlock disappeared from his room before Lestrade could see him, only to reappear 24 hours later accompanied by a somber John who offered no explanation for the missing day. Later, alone at the man's bedside, he quietly wept, clutching the unconscious man's hand in his own. He left after the nurse came in to check on Sherlock, assuring the DI that he would be fine and would wake up very soon. Lestade didn't want to be there for that. Knowing Sherlock would be alright had to be good enough. He doubted the younger man wanted him there

 

Lestrade sublimated his feelings by working overtime in weeks that followed, replying sporadically to the texts from John with medical updates on his friend. John didn't seem to realize how low Greg rated to Sherlock but he was grateful to know the younger man was recovering.

 

When the sleek black government car appeared outside his office one evening during the first week of the new year, he tried to ignore the thudding in his chest and the lump in his throat. Mycroft explained to him that Sherlock killed Charles Augustus Magnussen., The government man said no charges would be filed but that Sherlock would be essentially exiled on what sounded to Greg like a suicide mission in Eastern Europe. Lestrade managed to hold it together in the presence of the elder Holmes' brother but requested the car drop him off at the pub around the corner from his flat.

 

He stumbled home in a drunken haze and somehow managed to lose an entire weekend to the bottle.

 

When he saw daylight again, Moriarty seemed to be back and Sherlock was home. Had never really left, according to John Watson.

 

Lestrade barely saw Sherlock never mind actually communicating with the suddenly elusive consulting detective.

 

When six weeks later, the Faux Moriarty was captured and imprisoned, Sherlock deigned to come to Lestrade's office to offer a confusing statement explaining how he managed to capture the impostor.

 

Lestrade took his statement with a neutral face and thanked Sherlock for his hard work. The younger man looked at the Detective Inspector like he didn't recognize the man. A calculating expression crossed the consulting detective's face but he said nothing more and left after a brief handshake.

 

Lestrade immediately went to the men's washroom and vomited up his meager lunch.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't stop thinking about this fic. It's consuming me! I love it! 
> 
> Moderate cursing, nothing too shocking. I think T is a safe rating for that.

Lestrade nearly had a heart attack when he entered his flat after an absurdly long day's work. There, sitting on his sofa, looking as though the place belonged to him, was Sherlock Holmes. He felt his heart skip a beat and he did his level best to keep the flush he felt creeping up his neck from reaching his face.

 

It had been a month since he'd seen the detective last. After the "Fauxriarty case" as the rags were calling it, Sherlock was kept busy with private cases and favors for his brother, according to John's blog. Thankfully there had been no cases Lestrade and his team couldn't handle.

 

The DI ran a palm over this face, calluses catching on the stubble along his jaw. He did not want to deal with this tonight. He didn't want to deal with it ever. He knew why Sherlock was in his flat. He wanted an explanation for Lestrade's behavior since his return. Lestrade knew he'd treated the younger man differently but he'd been unable to keep himself from doing so. It was self-preservation really. If he avoided Sherlock or was curt during their blessedly few interactions, it was because Greg knew if he didn't behave as such, he would blurt out his feelings and he couldn't handle that ever happening. He never wanted to see Sherlock look at him with pity or disdain and so he removed himself from the other man's orbit. It had been excruciating to be apart from the man but he knew it was best for his broken, battered heart.

 

He decided to ignore the man siting on his sofa. He went about his usual evening rituals: washing his face, changing out of suit into a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, making tea and debating what to have for dinner. That last part turned out to be unnecessary as the thought of eating anything made his stomach turn. When his tea was prepared, he wandered into his sitting room and sat in the armchair across from Sherlock. The younger man had been silent since Lestrade arrived home, tracking his movement with his damn cat-like eyes.

 

Lestrade sipped his tea and attempted to calm his racing heart. He put his cup down on the table by his arm and looked at the consulting detective. "So. What's all this, then? Brushing up on your lock-picking skills? Felt like giving me a heart attack?"

 

Sherlock arched a brow at him and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Tell me what's going on, Lestrade."

 

So, straight to it then. Lovely.

 

"I don't know what you mean. 'Going on' with what?" Greg dissembled. Badly.

 

Sherlock scoffed and sat back. "Please, you've been acting strangely for months. I want to know why. What happened? When I first returned, you seemed happy to seek me out on puzzling cases but then suddenly you just stopped. Stopped calling, stopped coming by. So I repeat, what happened?"

 

Lestrade glanced at the other man before turning to look around the room, avoiding eye contact. "Nothing. We didn't need your help. You were busy with other things and we managed just fine."

 

"Nonsense. I read about the Havisham case. It took you weeks to find the killer, in the past you would have come to me. But you didn't. I could've found the murderer in less than half that time! What stopped you from calling on me?" Sherlock leaned forward again, ducking his head to meet Lestrade's gaze.

 

Lestrade froze when bright blue-green eyes met his own brown ones. He was trapped. He could feel a strange pressure in his chest. It suddenly seemed as though there was a large elephant sitting on him, forcing the air from his lungs. Greg clutched at his shirt, tried and failed to take deep breaths. Felt himself panicking. He couldn't do this. He couldn't have this conversation. He needed to get out of there. Sherlock needed to leave. He needed to breathe, why couldn't he breathe? He wasn't aware he'd closed his eyes until he felt a warm touch on his wrist.

 

His eyes snapped open and he saw that Sherlock had knelt by his side and was currently taking his pulse and placing his other hand on Greg's forehead. The younger man looked… worried? That couldn't be, could it? Oh, maybe he thought if Lestrade got sick he'd have to break in a new Detective Inspector. That must be it. 

 

"Breathe, Lestrade. Slowly. Deep breaths. Match your breathing to mine." Sherlock slowly inhaled and exhaled repeatedly, and Lestrade found himself mesmerized by the gentle rise and fall of the detective's chest. _'Is he incapable of buying shirts that fit properly? His buttons look as though they are hanging on for dear life! God he's fit. What's he saying? Focus!'_ Lestrade shook his head slowly, attempting to clear his scattered thoughts. He focused on Sherlock's mouth, trying to decipher what he was saying over the sound of his blood pounding in his ears. _'His lips are so lovely. They look soft. I bet they're soft. I wonder what he tastes like.'_

 

Sherlock pulled back, his brows raising. Lestrade realized with a sinking sensation that he'd said that last bit out loud. He closed his eyes and banged his head against the back of his chair _'Oh, buggering fuck. Son of cock loving whore. Fuck me sideways. Goddamn it!'_ His worst nightmares were literally coming true. The cat was most definitely out of the bag. _'Who puts cats in bags anyway? It seems a terribly ineffective way to transport an animal. I think I'm losing my mind. Perhaps this is all a dream or a hallucination? That would be lovely.'_ The grip on his wrist felt real enough though the hand that had been on his forehead was gone. 

 

"…er." Sherlock said, eloquently. 

 

"Yes." Greg agreed. "Indeed." 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock POV

_'Lestrade wants to know what I **taste** like? He thinks my lips are soft? Since when is he wondering about my lips?'_ Sherlock tried to wrap his massive intellect around the verbal bomb Lestrade had just dropped. This must be why the DI had been avoiding him. _'He has … feelings for me? Perhaps it's merely physical. I have been reliably informed that people consider me attractive. Maybe there are no feelings involved. More data required.'_

 

Sherlock remained where he was, kneeling next to Lestrade, as he studied the other man. He was flushed and his pupils were dilated, barely any brown visible. His pulse was elevated but that could be the result of the panic attack Sherlock helped him stave off. But the other signs were fairly typical, Lestrade was definitely attracted to him. _'Huh.'_

 

These thoughts and observations raced through his mind in a matter of seconds. He realized he would have to speak to Lestrade at some point but found himself at a loss for what to say. _'That's new. Why is that? I've fended off advances before.'_ Yet, Lestrade hadn't made any advances, he merely spoke his thoughts aloud. He made no attempt to kiss Sherlock or draw him into an embrace of any sort. In fact the older man seemed rather frozen at the moment.

 

"Are you alright, Lestrade?" Sherlock had yet to release the DI's wrist and made no move to do so. He didn't want to alarm the other man and he had been just in the midst of a nasty panic attack. _'Perhaps he finds my presence comforting? Although, perhaps not. He has been avoided my presence consistently for months now.'_

 

Lestrade blushed, his skin flushing even darker pink. "Yes," he said, nodding his head slightly. "Just dying of embarrassment. Nothing to see here." He grimaced and pulled his arm away from Sherlock's hand. The detective didn't resist the action but remained by the other man's side.

 

"Nothing to be embarrassed about. You misspoke. People make mistakes all the time." Sherlock said softly, his gaze riveted on the older man.

 

The DI raised his head sharply and suddenly looked furious and stood up, knocking the younger man back on his heels. 

 

"A mistake?" He stormed around the sitting room, pacing angrily. "A mistake?! Is that what just happened? A mistake." 

 

Sherlock remained on the floor, motionless, and watched as Lestrade laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "Yeah, I bloody well think I made a mistake the minute I fell in love with you, you bastard." 

 

He stopped pacing and his face paled. "Oh, brilliant, I can't seem to stop putting my foot in it."

 

Sherlock rocked back. _'He loves me? **He** loves **me**? So not purely physical then.'_

 

He opened his mouth to speak. "…" No words came to mind. He didn't know how to respond to such an idea.

 

The detective stood and walked over to Lestrade's sofa. He flung himself down on it and muttered, "I need to go to my mind palace." He heard Lestrade scoff and stomp out of the room, banging around in the kitchen. Sherlock tuned him out. 

 

_'Alright, review the facts. Lestrade fancies himself in love with me. If nothing else the past five years have proven to me that I'm not unlovable. That's rather affirming. Oh God, why did I read all those relationship books. Let's focus here.'_

 

Sherlock went to the part of his mind palace that housed everything that was Greg Lestrade. He hadn't been to this section in a while. He'd been too preoccupied by John's wedding and then the entire horrible Magnussen affair. Greg's section rivaled John's in scale and scope. He wandered around, collating data and attempting to sort the vast information in a way that would explain the current situation. 

 

_'Since I've returned he's acted very differently towards me: uncomfortable and evasive when we are together, blatantly ignoring me the rest of the time. Not all of that can be explained by his feelings. John told me Lestrade rarely answered his calls or texts, so not just me. He's been pulling away from both of us. But why? I do understand wanting to protect oneself from emotional pain but he must know I would never willingly hurt him. Granted, I have insulted his intelligence on numerous occasions but he must know I do that with with everyone. At least I did. Sure, I purposely get his name wrong… well, most of the time. Sometimes I **do** genuinely forget. He's been "Lestrade" to me for so long I forget that's not his only name. Perhaps my teasing about his name was not taken in the manner it was intended. I'll have to make a concentrated effort to show him he counts. After all, I've tried very hard to be less abrasive to those who matter to me… Wait! That's it. Oh, **stupid** Sherlock. He thinks he doesn't matter. Well, that won't do at all.'_

 

Sherlock opened his eyes and sat up abruptly. Lestrade wasn't there. He heard the older man puttering around towards the back of the flat. He rose up and followed the noise. He found Lestrade in his laundry room sorting through dirty clothes. 

 

"Greg." He began. Lestrade stood up quickly and looked at the younger man. 

 

"Oh, it's 'Greg' now is it? I didn't realize you could be arsed to get my name right. Thought I was Graham? Or Geoff? Maybe next time I'll be Griffin? Not sure how many G names there are but I figured you'd get around to all of them eventually." Lestrade pushed past the consulting detective and headed back towards the sitting room. 

 

Sherlock sighed and followed. _'This may be more difficult than I anticipated.'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a bitch to write. It's hard to get Sherlock's voice right. I hope I did ok.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft spells out some truths to Lestrade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes are mine! Unbeta'd and not britpicked.

(Sherlock POV)

Lestrade walked straight to the door and opened it. "Leave, Sherlock. Just get out. I don't want you here."

 

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but Greg shut him down. "Seriously, there's nothing you can say right now that will make me change my mind. I want you to leave." He jerked his head towards the door. 

 

Sherlock sighed loudly and left. He'd have to figure out a way to get Lestrade to talk to him and perhaps it would be better if he planned back at his flat. He flinched when he heard the door slam behind him. 

 

***

(Lestrade POV)

A week had gone by since Lestrade kicked Sherlock out of his flat. He left his building to go to Tesco's but drew up short when he saw the sleek, black luxury sedan parked right out front. He groaned to himself, tempted to walk by and ignore it but he knew from experience the car would just slowly tail him until he caved. The detective inspector straightened his shoulders, went to the car, opened the back door and slid inside, the door quietly snicking shut behind him.

 

As expected, Mycroft Holmes sat across from him, gazing at him placidly, a stereotypical look of condescension on his face. Lestrade stared back, refusing to speak first. It was a petty power play but he wasn't above playing it with the Holmes brothers. He felt the car smoothly pull into traffic.

 

The silence grew between them before Mycroft sighed and folded his hands in his lap. "Detective Inspector, would you kindly please explain what exactly is going on between you and my brother?"

 

Lestrade stared at the government man in shock. _'What on earth is he implying?'_ He fought the urge to immediately sputter a denial and instead took a steadying breath. "I don't know what you mean, Mycroft. There is absolutely nothing going on with me and Sherlock. **Nothing**." He repeated, firmly.

 

Mycroft merely raised a brow, reminding Lestrade so much of his younger brother that the DI struggled not to clench his fists in anger. The unbelievable gall of these two. _'Cut from the same bloody cloth, they are.'_ He shook his head and turned to look out the window. Let the other man stew. Lestrade wasn't putting up with either Holmes' shit anymore.

 

Another moment of silence stretched out before Mycroft cleared his throat and spoke calmly, thus driving Lestrade up a wall. "Obviously that isn't true. Sherlock was seen leaving your flat last Thursday. He has since holed himself up in Baker Street, ignoring all calls and texts and refusing to allow anyone entrance. I could, of course, gain entry should I choose but I thought it prudent to speak with you before forcing my way into my brother's sanctuary. **I will ask you again, Detective Inspector, what is going on?** " 

 

Lestrade could hear the steel in the other man's tone and knew he had to offer some sort of explanation. His life had turned into a waking nightmare and he didn't know how to fix it. 

 

The DI kept his gaze fixed out the window, watching the traffic go by. "There **really** isn't anything going on." He paused, clearing his throat. "Just… It's been obvious to me for some time how little Sherlock thinks of me and when he was at my flat, I indicated to him that I knew he sees me as nothing more than a means to an end - access to cases and all that. Then he left. End of story." He knew Mycroft could tell he was keeping something from him, but he'd be damned if he was going to admit his feelings for the younger Holmes brother out loud ever again. The government man could take his badge if he wanted. Lestrade had been humiliated enough lately. 

 

There was silence from the other side of the car. Had he managed to shock a Holmes into silence twice in one week? He should mark it in his calendar. Finally Lestrade looked over at Mycroft who had a supremely irritated look on his face. _'What is **he** all pissy about? I told him what happened. If he doesn't like it, he can go pound sand.'_

 

"You are an idiot, Lestrade." At this unexpected remark, the DI's eyebrows shot towards his hairline. _'Oh great, another Holmes telling me what a fool I am. Well, I know I'm a fool so the joke's on them... Wait, why does Mycroft think I'm an idiot?'_

 

"Huh? What? Why?" Lestrade sputtered, cringing internally at his lack of eloquence. 

 

"Sherlock jumped off a building for you and you think you mean nothing to him? You're an idiot." Mycroft said plainly. If Lestrade's eyebrows could have gone any higher they'd have fallen off his face. He was, to put it mildly, flabbergasted. 

 

"What the bloody hell are you on about?" He demanded, leaning forward in his seat. 

 

Mycroft remained unruffled as usual. "They day Sherlock 'died', there were three snipers aimed at the people for whom he cared the most: John Watson, Mrs. Hudson and **you**. You all were to die if it didn't appear to the world that Sherlock jumped to his death. So he did. He jumped. For you." 

 

Lestrade was literally struck dumb. He could only listen as the other man continued. "He then spent the next two years taking down Moriarty's web piece by piece. His goal was not only to dismantle that network but to ensure your continued safety. At times, it seemed Sherlock placed the rest of his mission second to neutralizing those three snipers. Nothing was, or is, as important to him as the safety of those he loves." 

 

Lestrade's tongue felt too thick for his mouth suddenly. He had no response to this information. He felt a stiff breeze would knock him over and was grateful to be sitting down. He scrubbed a hand over his face and noticed with a start that it was trembling. He looked at Mycroft, at a loss. The other man's gaze softened almost imperceptibly. 

 

"Gregory," he said softly. "Please go see my brother and fix this rift between you. He won't admit it but it's obvious he is inconsolable right now." 

 

The DI still didn't trust his tongue so he simply nodded at the other man. Moments later the car pulled to a stop and Lestrade blindly exited the vehicle. 

 

He looked around to figure out his location only to find himself staring at the door to 221B Baker Street. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The air gets cleared between Sherlock and Lestrade.

Sherlock heard the car pull away and the heavy trod of feet on the stairs. _'Ah, so Mycroft has chosen to deliver Lestrade to me. Bloody man can't stop meddling.'_ His train of thought ended when Lestrade knocked on the flat door.

 

"Go away!" Sherlock shouted, half hoping Lestrade would do as he said and leave him alone. He needed more time to think and he could hardly do that with the man in question standing mere feet away, loving him so loudly. The other half, the half Sherlock had been struggling with all week, desperately hoped the older man would ignore him and stay. He was driving himself mad, thinking in circles.

 

"No!" He heard Lestrade shout from the hallway. "Get up you lazy sod and let me in!" 

 

Sherlock smirked, then molded his face into a frown. He huffed a sigh and rolled gracefully off the couch onto his feet. He made sure to stomp loudly as he made his way across the flat, his dressing gown flowing behind him. He wrenched open the door and glowered at other man. 

 

"What," he gritted through clenched teeth, "do you want?" He drew himself up to his full height, the better to glower and intimidate Lestrade. It didn't work. _'Damn.'_

 

Lestrade didn't bother to answer him, elbowing his way past the consulting detective and entering the flat proper. "Bleeding hell, it stinks in here." The DI sniffed, wrinkling his nose, as he looked around at the messier-than-usual flat. "Oh, Jesus Harry Christ, you stink, too. How many days have you been wearing those pajamas? Go take a shower while I make you something to eat." 

 

Sherlock pouted and seemed to shrink in on himself but Lestrade wasn't having any of it. "Don't bother with that old routine. I know you, you probably haven't eaten in at least three days. Do as I say. You can finish your sulk after you've cleaned up and had a bite to eat. Go." 

 

The older man put his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and propelled him towards the bathroom. Sherlock sighed audibly, secretly pleased that Lestrade appeared to be over his strop and in full caregiver mode, and went to take a shower.

 

Twenty minutes later, clad in a clean set of pajamas and a different dressing gown, Sherlock entered the kitchen to find Lestrade plating the food he'd prepared. From the draft he felt, the other man also opened some windows.

 

Lestrade heard his approach and inclined his silver topped head towards the table. "Sit." He put the food in front of the seated detective. "Hope you don't mind beans on toast. You have nothing in. Shocking." He sat across from Sherlock with his own plate and tucked in.

 

Sherlock picked up his fork and dutifully ate his food, realizing with a start that he was actually hungry. In between bites, he offered, "I know Mycroft sent you. You don't have to be here. I realize it may make you uncomfortable considering … everything." He lifted his head and met the gaze of the other man. Lestrade flushed a bit but kept eating his food, shrugging a shoulder in lieu of a response.

 

After they finished eating, Lestrade got up and rinsed their plates. With his back turned, he spoke. "I'm not actually your brother's errand boy. No one sent me. I've had a lot of time to think about 'everything' as you so elegantly put it. I'm here because I want to be." Sherlock sat back in his chair in surprise and looked at the older man.

 

Lestrade turned around and pinned the younger man with a direct gaze. "Why didn't you tell me why you jumped that day? That I would've died if you hadn't? Why did I have to learn that from Mycroft? Why let me think you didn't care about me at all?"

 

Sherlock stood up abruptly, pushing his chair back. "I didn't **know** you felt that way! Why would you **ever** think that? I've always cared about you!" Now it was his turn to flush, _'Oh lovely,'_ he thought drily. He turned and stalked into the sitting room, the older man trailing behind him.

 

He spun and pointed at Lestrade. "You were there for me when no one else was! You literally picked me up and helped me get better! You got through to me when no one else could and convinced me to get clean! I've always relied on you." He paced back and forth, gesticulating wildly. "Before John, before Mrs. Hudson, there was **always** you. It was never just about the cases. I needed you! You always supported me. I can't believe you thought I was so heartless as to not care after all you've done for me. I know I've put on a good facade of being a heartless bastard over the years, but I always thought you saw through that. Saw that you matter to me… I was wrong. I always miss something." 

 

He flopped onto the sofa and ran his hands through his hair in agitation. He flung himself down so he was in a prone position and folded his arms across his chest. Having given his little speech, he seemed to have run out of things to say. He closed his eyes, expecting to hear the sounds of Lestrade leaving the flat. To his surprise, he heard the other man settle down in one of the chairs by the fireplace.

 

"Er, well, I suppose part of me thought when you met John, that you didn't need me anymore. And it's true, you didn't need me the same way you used to. I brought you cases, you solved them. You had a best friend and it seemed what friendship we had between us was in the past. Over." Lestrade coughed and then cleared his throat. "But then you fucking died, Sherlock. You were **dead** and I was absolutely gutted. I grieved and instead of getting better with time, it got worse. It was harder to get up in the morning, knowing you were gone." He sucked in a shuddering breath and Sherlock sat upright, placing his feet on the floor and resting his elbows on his knees. Lestrade looked over and met his eyes. "At some point, I realized I'd fallen in love with you. I had to live knowing the man I loved was dead and I never got to tell him." His cheeks flushed pink but his gaze never wavered. 

 

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but Lestrade held up a gentle hand. "Please, let me finish. I was beyond thrilled when you came back. I decided not to tell you how I felt. What would be the point, I thought. It was obvious you were so happy to be back and solving cases with John. The two of you against the rest of the world." The DI's voice broke off and Sherlock flinched, recognizing the phrase he'd spoken to John the night he unveiled himself to the doctor. Somehow, Lestrade heard about that and took the detective's words, meant to urge a reconnection with his best friend not a statement of fact, to heart. He dropped his head towards his chest, feeling a dull ache that threatened to grow with every beat of his heart. _'Oh, Lestrade, you daft fool.'_

 

"I decided to withdraw myself from your orbit. I distanced myself, like you said. It just hurt too much to be near you, knowing you only cared about John. Always John." Sherlock lifted his head and saw Lestrade was now staring into the kitchen, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

 

Sherlock stood and went to sit across from the other man, forcing him to look his way. "Greg, you have to know, I need you to know, John may be my best friend but he's not my only friend. I never thought to qualify or quantify relationships before but I too have had a lot of time to think this past week. I was surprised by your revelation and I reacted… poorly. I had no idea you felt something for me other than concern and perhaps an irrational fondness." Lestrade huffed a silent laugh at this. Sherlock took this as encouragement to continue.

 

"You are a good man, Lestrade. I admit that human nature often leaves me baffled," Lestrade full on snorted a laugh at that statement. Sherlock smiled wryly, "it never occurred to me that someone as warm and thoughtful and caring as you would ever want me in that fashion. And I don't know if I'm capable of maintaining a romantic relationship that isn't based on deceit and an ulterior motive. But if I were ever to try, it would be with you." Now it was Sherlock's turn to avert his gaze. He sensed rather than saw Lestrade's head jerk up in shock.

 

"But... John. You love John. I know he's married but you love him Sherlock, it's obvious." Lestrade's voice was strained.

 

Sherlock shook his head slightly. "I **do** love John, just not in the manner you think. John isn't you, Greg. Whenever I let myself imagine a different path for my life, one in which I wasn't 'married to my work,' I always pictured it with you." He chanced a peek at the other man and quirked a half grin at the look of amazement on his face.

 

The detective leaned forward, "I'm not saying this will work out. Or, that it's a good idea. You know me and how I behave. But I'd like to try for something more. If you'd have me." He reached across the gap between them and tentatively rested his hand on the older man's knee.

 

Lestrade shook his head, and Sherlock's heart plummeted. He'd read the entire situation wrong. He made to move away when Lestrade placed his own work roughened hand atop his own long musicians fingers.

 

Lestrade beamed at him and Sherlock felt the tight feeling in his chest abate and he answered the other man's grin with one of his own. 

 

Lestrade twined their fingers together and whispered softly, "Always, Sherlock. Always." 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all for this one. I think I'm going to revisit this story with a one-shot updating the progress (or lack thereof!) of their relationship. Perhaps with smexy times.
> 
> I just love these two characters, especially together!


End file.
